


Breaking Bridges, Falling Ruins

by NoScrubs12345



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-14 00:30:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1245952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoScrubs12345/pseuds/NoScrubs12345
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He doesn’t pause, doesn’t stop because his only choice is to keeping moving forward.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking Bridges, Falling Ruins

Gravel crunches under the tyres as the car pulls over to the kerb. Jack looks up from the spot on the dashboard he’s been staring at since Rhys picked him up at the train station and feels his breath hitch, tears springing anew as he stares up at Ianto’s house. Memories hit him like a punch to the gut, the happy ones almost more painful than the ones all too new. He can feel the tears stinging at his eyes, and the horrendous nausea that rips through his stomach is nearly too much. He starts when he feels a hand on his forearm, hating himself for the way he jumps and the sudden wave of betrayal he feels. He forces himself to look away, down to the hand on his arm. It’s too big, fingers too short and too wide to be the one he wants to comfort him.

“Sorry,” Rhys says quietly, a trace of pity seeping through his voice and Jack hates the way it makes him feel like a china doll nestled on the edge of a shelf. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Jack doesn’t answer, just stares down at Rhys’s hand and tries not to focus on the gold ring that mocks and taunts him with promises of what can never now be. Memories of big guns and dancing cheek to cheek, Ianto warm and safe and so very much alive mar his mind. He doesn’t hold back the shuddering sob of breath that threatens to escape his lips, doesn’t have the energy to lift his hand and wipe away the tears as they trickle down his cheeks.

“I’d ask if you were okay, but...” Rhys says, trailing off and giving Jack’s arm a squeeze.

Jack shrugs the hand away. The car suddenly feels too small and claustrophobia grips him, the taste and weight of centuries of earth phantom memories that press against his chest, stealing whatever breath he has left.

He fumbles with his seat belt, hands clumsy with their shaking as he undoes the clasp and reaches for the door. He flings it open, the rush of chilly air a relief as it washes over him. Turning to Rhys, he tries to smile and knows from the way Rhys averts his eyes that maybe he looks as broken as he feels.

“Rhys?” he asks, voice like sandpaper in his throat as he speaks. He waits until the man looks up at him. “Thanks.”

“Any time,” Rhys says, the faded ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “If you need anything, let us know. We’re here for you, you know.”

Jack just nods, his voice failing him, and looks back up at the house they had shared. He doesn’t look back at Rhys as he climbs from the car, the sound of the door slamming shut like thunder in the deserted street. He can feel Rhys’s eyes on him as he slowly walks across the street, and he almost wishes a car would careen around the corner and into him if only for the blissful respite death would bring. Instead, his heart grows heavy and swollen with betrayal and grief and _I love you too_ with each footfall. His stomach is in uproar; it feels like an army of wolverines is waging a civil war inside of him. The bile rises when pushes back the gate and it takes all he has not to be sick in the petunias.

He pauses a moment to stare at the front door, remembering. Standing there in front of it for hours, rain pouring down like the tears on Ianto’s cheeks after Lisa’s death, his own lost in the rain as he waits until he’s needed, until he’s forgiven by both his lover and himself. Ianto fumbling for the keys, body warm as Jack presses into him, arms around his waist, teeth and mouth nipping and sucking at the nearest bit of skin, both knowing they won’t make it farther than the couch if they’re lucky. Ianto, hair mussed and pillow lines mapping his face, standing there in nothing but his dressing gown at some ungodly hour, ready to smite whatever demons have chased Jack to his doorstep.

He’s snapped from his reverie when the dog from next door barks and knows it won’t be long before Mrs Reynolds will be taking it for a walk. He reaches into his coat pocket, suddenly feeling on display, like a weeping clown in the ghastly whirl of a carnival, and pulls out a single key. His hands shake as he lifts the key to the lock, fitting it in on the third try. As the tumblers turn and slip into place, he grasps the knob in a grip he’s sure should shatter it. His knees start to tremble and it’s only his grip and his will that keep him upright. On the other side of the door is what’s left of Ianto, reminders of what had been, what could have been, what he’s still desperately to. The blinding, almost all consuming pain and the knowledge Ianto’s blood is on his hands is what both shatters and drives him. He deserves the pain, knows it is both the penance he forces on himself and the shiva he so desperately needs to sit before he can even begin to think of picking up the pieces of his irreparable heart.

He opens the door, the familiar and welcoming smell of Ianto’s-- their?--home too much. He stares down at his boots, his vision blurred as he closes the door and resets the lock. He lets out a shuddering sigh as he leans into the door, back pressed to it, hands grasping vainly at the wood, head thrown back and eyes clenched shut to stymie the tears that refuse to be dammed. The house is too quiet and is as empty as himself without Ianto. He bangs his head back against the door, the pain not enough as a choking sob is wrenched from his lips like Ianto had been from him too soon.

The tears flow unchecked and unceasingly as he looks around the small entry way, little reminders of Ianto and the life they were building crashing over him like waves over a boat in a hurricane. Ianto’s denim jacket hangs from the coat rack by a small wardrobe, a pair of trainers hastily kicked off next to it. The jacket had been soaked when they’d rushed back in Sunday night, laughing and leaning into each other as they escaped the rain. They’d made love until the early hours, saying with bodies what they never allowed themselves to put into words. He can still feel Ianto’s body pressed against his, skin slick with sweat, long legs wrapped around his waist, hands mapping his body, each caress an unspoken prayer, an unuttered confession of love.

He chokes the bile down as it rises. The memory hurts, hurts like so many times before and more than a bomb ripping him apart from the inside out. He damns himself for trying to guard his heart so fiercely, for how he lets it rule him, setting him up time and time again for loss and the betrayal that is death. A sudden flare of anger rips through him—at Rose for cursing him and at himself for letting beautiful Welsh vowels and a pair of blue eyes win him over in spite of his promise of never again. He wonders, like countless times before, what he ever did to deserve this punishment, a slave to his heart, always the victim of circumstances beyond his control, the immortal man wishing for death like the sinner begging for salvation.

Gathering what little resolve he has left, Jack pushes away from the door. He kicks off his boots, tan leather joining black trainers, and sheds his socks, taking care to stuff them into his shoes. His coat slips from his shoulders as he passes the living room, simple nights spent together on the couch watching films in each other’s arms, memories of last Christmas haunting him like a ghost of them past. He doesn’t pause, doesn’t stop because his only choice is to keeping moving forward.

The kitchen is a mine field of reminders: the coffee maker by the window, cups sitting by the sink where Ianto had placed them five days ago, dry and ready to be drank from once more. He stops to push in one of the chairs at the small table, his eyes drawn to the list of groceries Ianto had been working on the morning before everything had went to hell in a gruesome little hand basket. He slowly undoes the buttons on his shirt, glancing over the list as he shrugs it from his shoulders. It falls to the floor in a cascade of blue fabric, pooling and tickling at his bare feet. He leans forward, one hand steadying himself as he grabs the pen as it starts to roll off the table. He uncaps it with his teeth and, between bread and eggs, adds a shaky, scrawled _you_. His vision blurs as he stands, recapping the pen and tossing it onto the table. It rolls off as he walks away, plunging to the floor and crash landing on top of his shirt. He’s almost jealous.

He crosses to the sink and stares unseeingly into the back garden. His fingers absently trace at Ianto’s mug, trailing over and up the handle to run a finger along the rim. The ceramic is cold under his touch, but he wrenches his hand away as if burned. His gaze turns from the window to the cups. In a fit of rage and self-hatred, he grabs his own mug, identical to the one surely destroyed in the Hub, and flings it at the far wall. It shatters, the tinkling of broken pottery lost in the feral howl that escapes him. He turns and snatches up Ianto’s cup, having to force himself not to send it hurtling after his own and instead fill it from the tap. The water doesn’t quench his too dry mouth, doesn’t satisfy a thirst that will only grow stronger and more desperate as grief continues its hideous, glorious torture. He reverently sets the mug back down, a drop of water sliding down the side, mirroring his tears that have yet to cease. He pulls his vest over his head slowly, the cool air of the kitchen nipping at his skin, and wipes the drop away before it reaches the bottom of the cup.

The vest is abandoned in front of the refrigerator as he leaves the kitchen. He stops in the hall at the bottom of the stairs, one bare foot on the first step and a hand on the rail as he stares up them. It’s seventeen steps to the top; he’s counted many times before when his heart was heavy or when sleep refused to come. A sigh escapes as a hiccough and he starts up the stairs. He starts to undo his belt on step three, by step six the buckle is undone, step nine sees it slide from his belt loops with a _whish_ of leather against fabric, and it drops from his hand on step eleven. By the time he reaches the top of the stairs, he feels like he’s been scaling Everest, his already aching body throbbing and breathing heavily through his mouth as the tears continue uninhibited. He’s surprised he’s still crying; he barely has energy left to take one step more, let alone cry what’s left of his heart out. Whether they well up from some part of his broken and battered soul or come crashing like water over a cliff, once started in its freefall cannot be hindered, he neither knows nor cares.

He takes a deep breath and looks around the small landing. The spare room is to his left, filled with cardboard boxes labelled with Lisa’s name and mementos from Ianto’s life before London and Torchwood. He sniffs, wiping his nose on his arm before scrubbing at his face with trembling hands. They come away wet and salty and he wipes them on his hips, fresh tears springing from somewhere deep inside to replace their comrades. He’ll have to pack up everything, put all that remains of the man he loves inside boxes in a poor imitation of the burial he can’t bear the thought of. He sighs and swallows the lump in his throat. For now it can wait.

He turns to the right, one hand trailing along the wall as the other undoes the button and zipper on his trousers. They fall outside the threshold of the bedroom, and he kicks them away. He pauses in the doorway, one hand resting against the frame. Everything is how they left it—bed unmade, duvet hanging slightly off Ianto’s side, container of lube poking out from under one of the pillows. He remembers holding him in his arms all those mornings ago, not wanting to leave but resigned to crawling from the warmth and comfort of the bed to face another day. It breaks his heart, his very soul that he can’t go back in time and warn himself, tell himself to stay in bed with Ianto, to make love one last time or buy them both one way tickets to Timbuktu. The paradox would be more than worth it, Doctor and time lines be damned.

But he can’t live in a world of what ifs and could have beens. He’s been dealt a foul hand by a dealer stacking the cards against him. He curses Rose once more, but sobs as he realises she was the one who brought them together. For a brief moment he wonders what would have been if he had died on Satellite Five as he was supposed to, what Ianto’s life would have been like. But he chokes on a fresh wave of tears, unable to think of a life without knowing him. He scrubs at his eyes one final time and slips his briefs from his hips. He tosses them into the laundry basket out of habit and slowly crosses to the bed. He flops down on his stomach, automatically pulling Ianto’s pillow close to his chest, cradling it as if it were the man himself. It still smells like him, of his shampoo, cologne, something distinctly Ianto. Tears and phlegm mingle and all too soon it will smell only of daft fifty-first century pheromones. He doesn’t care though; he can’t stay here forever and he meant what he said. In a thousand years he’ll still remember, still love him as much as he does now. But a thousand or a million years, he doesn’t know how the pain will ever get any better, ever become anything less than the all consuming ache it is now.

He whispers his name and clings to the pillow as if it were the last life vest on a sinking ship. His tears begin to wane as his lover’s scent washes over him, calming him. For a moment he can fool himself Ianto is just in the other room, brushing his teeth or making sure the house is locked up tight. But the moment passes, its departure bringing forth a fresh wave of grief. He cries himself to exhausted sleep, the first proper he’s had since his world came crashing down. Around him are all the comforts of the place he had started to call home. But, as sleep filled with beautiful blue eyes and lilting Welsh vowels takes him, he knows his home is wherever Ianto is. And now home is the one place he can never go.


End file.
